Perhaps it was foolish of me to buy six ornamental Uzbek knives as gifts on the Osh bazaar. But the price—even the foreigner’s price—of $4-5 was right for a traditional knife with a bone or glass-beaded handle, fashioned on a blacksmith’s forge, and a sheath. I wrapped them in socks and packed them in the bag I was checking, along with other sharp objects—a pair of scissors and a corkscrew. Surely, there would not be a problem at customs at Almaty airport.

Postcards from Stanland: Journeys in Central Asia (Ohio University Press, 2016) is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Books-a-Million and other online retailers. Read excerpts at www.davidhmould.com (Travel Blogs and Articles) or Facebook /PostcardsFromStanland/ or view readings and interviews on YouTube

Of course, there was. I was ordered to open the bulky suitcase where I had packed my gifts, and tied up with rope. One official paged through three computer catalogs to make sure that IBM was not peddling porno. Another carelessly unwrapped small ceramic figures I’d bought at the student art store in Osh (for about $2 each), suspecting I was smuggling archaeological artifacts. I was asked to produce an export license for a small oil painting of a moonlit Issyk Kul lake—a gift from a colleague at the US embassy. At a bookstore in Bishkek, I had bought three Soviet-era laminated schoolroom maps, including one of the US, which highlighted the locations of major episodes of labor action and revolution—Haymarket, Homestead, the 1913 Colorado miners’ strike. “It is forbidden to export historical maps,” one officer announced. I doubted that even a post-Soviet bureaucracy that liked to invent lots of regulations had one that specifically applied to school maps. “Show me the rule,” I demanded. I unfolded the US map. “What do you think I’m going to do? Invade the United States?” That appeared to settle the issue. I thought later that confiscating old maps was hardly the message newly democratic Kazakhstan wanted to send to the rest of the world. Someone in authority eventually decided that old Soviet maps, ceramic rabbits and amateur oil paintings did not endanger the body politic. I was allowed to repack my bag. The knives were not returned.

With the end of the Cold War and the rise of new democratic regimes in Asia and Africa, the list of potential destinations for would-be plane hijackers armed with Uzbek ornamental knives had been shrinking. The plane would not have enough fuel to reach Havana. There were still a few options in Africa—Mogadishu (assuming the airport was not under attack) or Kinshasa in the Not-So-Democratic Republic of Congo where the fabulously corrupt and autocratic Mobutu Sese Soko was still in charge. But from where I was in Asia, the only thing I could have said was, “Take this plane to Pyongyang. Please?” To which the pilot would probably have replied: “Are you sure you don’t want to fly to Bangkok or Jakarta instead? It’s a lot warmer there, and I can recommend some good restaurants.” I kept protesting my good intentions, but pointed out that if I had really wanted to hijack the Lufthansa jet, I needed only two knives, not half a dozen.

Eventually a young plain clothes officer who spoke English took possession of the knives, examined my passport and said he would see me after check-in. He met me in the departure lounge, and invited me upstairs to a back room where we drank tea. He introduced me to two girlfriends who giggled a lot. He said he had been in Los Angeles for a month. What did I think of Southern California? How did I like Central Asia? My flight was now boarding, and I fidgeted, not wanting to alarm him but worrying about missing the flight.

He gave me his email address, and asked me to write. Perhaps I could get visas for his girlfriends? He smiled and returned the knives. “Safe travels,” he said. I ran for the plane, clutching the knives. At Frankfurt, a customs officer put them in a sealed box, and checked them.

Soviet-era joke: A man walks into a shop and asks, “Don’t you have any fish?” The shop assistant replies, “You’ve got it wrong. This is a butcher’s—we don’t have any meat. They don’t have any fish in the fish shop across the street!”

In the Soviet era, all shops—from the Tsum central department store to the small corner store—were state-owned and operated and numbered, with fixed prices and limited selection. Shoppers complained of long lines and surly customer service. In some areas, seasonal shortages of basic foodstuffs—bread, meat, dairy products, fruits and vegetables—were common.

Postcards from Stanland: Journeys in Central Asia (Ohio University Press, 2016) is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Books-a-Million and other online retailers. Read excerpts at www.davidhmould.com (Travel Blogs) or Facebook /PostcardsFromStanland/ or view readings and interviews on YouTube

An underground retail sector existed alongside the state-run shops. Prices were higher, but the quality was better and some items were simply not sold in state-run stores; for Levis or Marlboros, you needed to talk to the guy in the leather jacket who hung around behind the Palace of Culture. In agricultural regions such as Kyrgyzstan’s Fergana Valley, some city dwellers had dachas where they grew apples, apricots, peaches and cherries, and raised vegetables; they canned for the winter months, and sold surplus to neighbors and friends. The police periodically cracked down on the underground economy, especially when it involved large shipments of alcohol, cigarettes or consumer electronics. But it was not worth the effort to stop a babushka selling tomatoes or strawberry jam to her neighbors in the apartment block, or even to stop the production and sale of moonshine called samogon (translated literally as “self-run”), the homemade distilled alcoholic concoction, usually made from sugar, beets, potatoes, bread or fruit.

In many ways, the state shops were a Potemkin Village—impressive facades, with empty shelves inside. And so the Soviets quietly allowed business in the informal economy to keep running, especially on the bazaars. In Osh, the massive Jayma bazaar which sprawls along the western bank of the Ak-Burra river, winding up dozens of side streets and alleys, had been one of the great markets on the Silk Road since medieval times. Today, it is open seven days a week, and thronged on Friday and Sunday, the traditional market days.

Buyer beware. The consumer electronics aisle at the bazaar in Osh, southern Kyrgyzstan, summer 1996. You'd better read the labels carefully. It's not a Panasonic, it's a Panascanic. And there's no 30-day return on those Daewoo TVs.

It is still primarily an agricultural market, with slaughterhouses and warehouses. One section is piled high with bales of hay; in another, live chickens are sold, in another, raw cotton and wool; nearby, blacksmiths forge horseshoes, nails, stovepipes, kazans and traditional Uzbek ornamental knives. In the summer, the market bulges with fresh produce--peaches, apricots, oranges, cherries, grapes, melons and vegetables. Even in winter, apples, pears, figs, pomegranates, potatoes, onions, and carrots are abundant, and dried apricots, raisins, pistachios, almonds and walnuts are sold year round. Uzgen rice—the main ingredient of the Uzbek national dish plov, a lamb pilaf with carrots, onions and hot peppers—is sold from open bags. Lipioshski (flat bread) is baked in tandoori ovens. Butter comes by the slab, sugar in huge yellow crystalline lumps. Shashlyk (marinated mutton or beef kebabs, served with vinegary onions), laghman (a Uighur spicy noodle and vegetable soup), manti (dumplings stuffed with diced lamb and onion), and samsa (pastry filled with spicy meat or vegetables) are sold from stalls.